Deadeye

by William C. Dietz

  As they arrived on the fourth floor, Lee saw that it was undamaged. The terrorists had been able to reach the third floor but hadn’t gone any higher. Omo led her through a maze of cubicles to an open area. The conference table was littered with cups, printouts, and a variety of personal belongings. Five cops were present, all of whom looked like the sort of people they were supposed to chase. Omo made the introductions. The team leader was a man named Van. He had a bald head, a handlebar mustache, and a pair of world-class biceps that were on full display. Lee couldn’t help but notice the webbing between his fingers and wondered how that would affect his ability to fire a gun.

  Next came a woman named Fossy. She had purple hair, an elfin face, and arms covered with tattoos.

  “The Stick,” as Van referred to him, was so thin he looked like a living skeleton. He waved a hand.

  A woman called Coco was sitting next to the Stick. She had blond hair, a pretty face, and a snakelike tongue. It flicked in and out from time to time.

  Finally, there was Kirby. He was so short that he had to sit on two cushions and was armed with a G-26 or “Baby Glock” rather than a larger weapon. Once the introductions had been made, he looked at Lee and frowned. “Are you the one who saved the people on the third floor?”

  “No,” Lee said. “I’m the one who held on to the switch while Deputy Omo shot the asshole in the head.”

  A number of looks were exchanged, and Lee knew, or thought she knew, what the police officers were thinking. Omo was the same man who shot a perp through Arpo’s son. Some of them chuckled, and Van extended a hand. “Nice work, Omo . . . You saved a lot of lives.

  “Okay,” Van continued. “The word came down that the case you’re working on could be connected to the D-Dawgs. We’d love nothing better than to nail those assholes. How can we help?”

  * * *

  It was dark, but thanks to a silvery frosting of starlight, Manny Hermoza could see the dirt road below. It was the perfect night for killing Blancos and taking their women. Hermoza planned to take a norm bitch for himself one day and use her to produce a son. A fine, strapping boy who would inherit his father’s organization and make it even larger. Carla wouldn’t like that, but so what? Hermoza’s thoughts were interrupted as a voice came through his earbuds. “They coming.”

  The lookout was correct. As Hermoza looked to the left, he saw a pair of headlights appear. Strips of duct tape had been used to reduce the amount of light they produced, but a couple of horizontal slits were visible. “Okay,” he said into the boom mike in front of his lips. “Now remember . . . Hit the first ride, and the second ride, but stay off the rest. If somebody shoots a girl, I’m gonna roast him like a pig.”

  After walking the road the day before, Hermoza and his gang had chosen the kill zone laid out in front of him. There was no way to know how many vehicles the Blancos would bring and the length of the intervals between them. So it was impossible for Hermoza to offer anything more than general instructions until some specific information came in. It seemed to take forever but was actually no more than thirty seconds or so. “The last one is coming your way,” a lookout announced. “It’s a gun truck with a fifty on the back.”

  “Okay,” Hermoza said. “Hold, hold, hold . . . Fire!”

  All of the D-Dawgs were lined up along the north side of the road so they wouldn’t shoot each other. The RPG men fired first, and both grenades flew straight and true. Light strobed the night as the lead vehicle slewed sideways and veered into a ditch. It was on fire and blew up when the flames found a box of ammo.

  It was tempting to sit back and watch the fireworks. But Hermoza knew better than to do so. His job was to stay in touch with the big picture, and thanks to a flood of radio reports, he knew that while the last vehicle in the convoy had been hit, it wasn’t blocking the road. And that meant the surviving Blancos could back out of the trap. “They’re escaping!” someone shouted, and it was true. But Hermoza had an app for that. “Blow the charges,” he ordered. “And when the bastardos get out, shoot them.”

  Hermoza left cover and took the slope in a series of jumps. The Blancos were firing wildly in hopes of scoring some lucky hits. Then the charges went off, and a curtain of soil shot upward. Clangs were heard as rocks rained down on the SUVs and struck some of the D-Dawgs as well. One man stumbled away, holding his head.

  Hermoza was on the road by then, with his pistol raised. The headlights in front of him continued to grow dimmer as the vehicle backed away. He chose a point halfway between the lights and squeezed the trigger. There was a loud boom, and the recoil was so powerful that Hermoza had to pull the hog leg back down before he could fire it again. The second shot was right on the money, and the especiale jerked to a halt as a cloud of steam poured out of it.

  At that point, the Blancos had little choice but to beg for mercy or fight back. And, since there was no likelihood of mercy, they came out firing. The D-Dawgs gunned them down. Then, just to make sure, a Dawg named Deuce put two bullets into each head. Hermoza went over to spit on the last one. “How you like that, bitch?” he demanded. The woman didn’t answer.

  After crushing the opposition, it was time to examine the take. There were three of them, all norms, and all under the age of thirty. The D-Dawgs lined them up so that Hermoza could squeeze their breasts and grade them. “Two B’s and a C,” he concluded. But that was fine since each bitch was worth eleven pounds of cocaine, five pounds of gold, or one hundred thousand nu. Cocaine was Hermoza’s currency of choice.

  “This,” Hermoza said, “has been a very profitable evening. Collect their weapons, check to see which vehicles can be driven, and load the ladies. Oh, and don’t touch them. You’ll be sorry if you mess with my merchandise.”

  “How about the bodies?” a D-Dawg wanted to know.

  “Leave ’em for the coyotes,” Hermoza answered phlegmatically. “Everybody has to eat.”

  * * *

  It was early morning. Two precious days had passed since the first meeting with Van and the other members of the gang squad. And if Amanda Screed was still alive, Lee knew that forty-eight hours would feel like an eternity to her. But it took time to plan, get the necessary warrants, and establish a stakeout. Lee was on the top floor of a two-story residence directly across from aptly named Bandido Bar in south Phoenix. A watering hole where, according to Van, the D-Dawgs spent a lot of their spare time.

  Thanks to the low windowsill, Lee could sit on the wooden chair and peer down through dusty blinds at the seedy saloon below. She was hoping that Hermoza would roll up and go inside, giving Kirby a chance to tag his ride. Would that happen? Maybe, but Lee wasn’t going to hold her breath.

  Still, the stakeout was something. And something beat the hell out of nothing. That’s why Kirby was stationed in a parked van waiting to fire his air rifle at vehicles parked near the bar. The BB-sized tags were designed to hit, splatter, and stick. And by tracking the signals they sent, the deputies could determine where the target vehicles went.

  Lee’s thoughts were interrupted by a series of four knocks. Not two, not three, but four. The door was locked and kept that way at all times. Lee got up, drew the Glock, and went to stand beside the entryway. “Who’s there?”

  “Omo.”

  Lee threw the bolt but waited to make sure that Omo was alone before closing the door and locking it. The pistol went back into the holster. “Hey, Cowboy . . . What’s up?”

  “I brought you some coffee,” Omo said as he offered a cup. “And some news. Somebody ambushed a convoy of Blancos out in the desert—and we have reason to believe that the D-Dawgs were responsible.”

  Lee slipped the face mask up onto the top of her head. Then she took a sip. The coffee was good. “Blancos? Who are they?”

  “A gang from New Mexico.”

  “Okay . . . And we care because?”

  “We care because they were bringing girls into the area with
plans to sell them.”

  Lee took a second sip. “Says who?”

  “Says one of the Dawgs. He got hit by a falling rock and was left for dead. Once your relief shows up, we’ll go over to the jail and talk to him.”

  Stick arrived shortly thereafter, which allowed Omo and Lee to leave the building. A narrow flight of stairs led down to the back door, which opened onto an alley. After a careful 360, Omo pronounced the truck clean, and they got in.

  It was a twenty-minute drive to the so-called tent-city jail located on Durango Street. Various iterations of the encampment had been around since 1993 and the mostly-open-air facility still housed more than two thousand prisoners.

  After parking in a lot, they got out of the truck and proceeded on foot. “You can see the guard towers,” Omo said. “And the stun fences. But what you aren’t likely to notice is the facial-recognition system, the minidrones, and the ringers.”

  Lee looked at him. “Ringers?”

  “People who look like inmates but aren’t.”

  There were multiple layers of security to pass through. But finally, after checking their weapons, the officers were allowed to enter. The sun was up, and Lee was starting to sweat as a uniformed deputy led them into a tent. Dupree was waiting. A caplike bandage covered the top of his head and his face, neck, and hands were covered with zits. Some were weeping pus, and Dupree dabbed at them while the visitors sat down. “This is Detective Lee,” Omo said. “And my name is Omo. What happened to your head?”

  Dupree had beady black eyes. They darted from face to face. “I don’t remember.”

  “It’s too late for that bullshit,” Omo said. “You were quite talkative when they arrested you, and I’ve seen the video.”

  “They’ll kill me,” Dupree said pitifully.

  “Maybe and maybe not,” Omo replied. “If you’re a good boy, we’ll swap you for a prisoner in Texas. The Dawgs don’t mean jack shit down there.”

  Dupree looked hopeful. “Really? You can do that?”

  “Yes. If you answer our questions.”

  “Okay,” Dupree said as he blotted the right side of his face. “I’ll tell you what I know.” And that, as it turned out, included the crucifixion and the ambush.

  “Was the ambush successful?” Lee demanded.

  Dupree shrugged. “I don’t know. After the rock hit me, I fell into a ditch and passed out.”

  “Understood,” Lee said. “But let’s assume the ambush was successful. Where would the gang take the girls?”

  “Only El Cabra and the so-called Big Dawgs know that,” Dupree responded.

  “But I’ll bet that you’ve heard things,” Omo put in.

  “They say Hermoza has a ranch,” Dupree said. “Maybe he took them there . . . Or maybe he went somewhere else. Pretty soon now, he’ll send out invitations, hold an auction, and collect his money. Simple as that.” The interview was over.

  * * *

  Manny Hermoza parted his lips, and Deputy Coco Moss sent her snakelike tongue into his mouth. That was followed by a good deal of heavy breathing, mutual groping, and a violent coupling. Once the climax was over, Hermoza allowed himself to roll off his lover’s body and lay wheezing beside her. The ceiling fan had only one speed, and that was slow. However slight, the breeze helped to cool his sweaty skin. The motel room was dark except for the light that leaked in around the heavy curtains and the illumination provided by a flickering TV screen. “Damn, woman . . . You know how to fuck.”

  “Watch your mouth,” Moss said as she elbowed her way up against a couple of lumpy pillows. “There’s a lady in the room. Pass my cigarettes.”

  Hermoza didn’t approve of smoking. It was bad for your health, and he hated the stink. But Moss had privileges that other people didn’t. One of which was to smoke in his presence. So he gave her the pack and a fancy lighter. There was a momentary flare of light and some tinny music. Way down in Dixie? Yes, Hermoza thought so. “So,” he said. “You wanted to see me.”

  “Yeah,” Moss replied. “I have some information for you.”

  “That’s what I pay you for,” Hermoza said, as a stream of smoke hit the fan.

  “We have a visitor,” Coco said. “A detective from LA. She’s working on a slave-trading case. One of our deputies was assigned to help her.”

  “So?”

  “So they had a chat with Marcus Ford.”

  “Ford’s dead,” Hermoza replied mildly. “They hung him.”

  “They spoke to him the day before he died,” Moss countered. “And he had plenty to say.”

  Hermoza swore. “I should have popped the weasel myself.”

  “And they spoke to Jimmy Dupree. He survived the ambush, and he’s sitting in tent city, waiting to be arraigned.”

  “What did he tell them?”

  Coco shrugged. “Not much because he doesn’t know much. But the heat is on. I think you should sell those girls and do it soon.”

  Hermoza considered that. “I have to notify potential customers, give them enough time to respond, and set things up. So I need four or five days minimum. Where is this detective staying?”

  “She’s staying with Deputy Omo’s family. In their compound.”

  Her hand found him, and Hermoza was pleased to discover that he was ready again. “Brush your teeth.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you smell like an ashtray.”

  Coco left for the bathroom, and Hermoza smiled.

  * * *

  Another day had passed and, in spite of all their efforts, very little progress had been made. The tag strategy was a success, in that the police officers knew where many of the D-Dawgs had been, but that didn’t help much. Hermoza knew better than to maintain a headquarters location that could be bugged and used against him. He stayed on the move and used disposable cell phones to communicate with the gang.

  As Lee’s shift came to an end, and Omo arrived to relieve her, she was depressed. Some progress had been made but not enough. The sun was a red smear on the horizon as she drove Omo’s truck to the family compound. Cousin Teo pushed the gate open. Lee waved, drove inside, and parked. A short walk took her to the casita. The old door had been removed and a new one had been hung. She opened it and went inside.

  After a quick shower, Lee made a dinner that consisted of boiled pasta, a half can of tuna, and some shredded cheese. After washing the dishes, she placed a call to Travis Air Force Base in California. It had taken more than a day for McGinty to capture the right general’s attention, convince her of the necessity, and set things up. Unfortunately, the major in charge of the project didn’t have any news for her.

  So Lee was left to paint her toenails and listen to some R&B. After that, it was time to go to bed. Sleep came slowly, but once it came, Lee went deep. And that’s where she was when the attack started. She heard a burst of automatic fire, sat up straight, and was reaching for the Glock when something went BOOM.

  Was that the sound of a missile hitting the compound? Or something else? There was no way to be certain as Lee rolled out of bed and started toward the door. The Glock was in her hand, but the Smith & Wesson was sitting on the dresser, so she took that too. She was still in motion when a second explosion destroyed most of the casita’s east wall. One minute it was there, and the next it wasn’t, as a mixture of dust and smoke filled the air.

  Then the headlamps appeared. They made excellent targets, and Lee immediately went to work on them. She started on the left and worked her way to the right, being careful to aim at a spot just under each light. Three targets fell in quick succession.

  Then she saw something fly through the air, bounce off a wall, and fall to the floor. Even though Lee was alone, she yelled, “Grenade!” as she took a running dive. She couldn’t break the fall without releasing the pistols. So she hit hard and was skidding into the kitchen when the bomb went off. There was
a flash of light, a loud bang, and the sound of broken glass as the kitchen window shattered.

  None of the flying metal struck her, and Lee was giving thanks for that, when a battering ram hit the front door. It struck once, twice, and three times before breaking the lock and causing what remained of the door to hit a wall. Lee was sitting with her back to a cabinet by then. Both pistols were raised and she fired them in alternation. There was a yell, a burst of automatic fire that missed her by inches, and the boom of a shotgun. Not inside but outside. That raised the possibility that the Omo clan was fighting back.

  Lee struggled to her feet and winced as she put her right foot on a piece of broken glass. She was barefoot and still clad in a tee shirt and panties as she approached the door. Two bodies were blocking the way. She shot both of them in the head before stepping on one. It gave slightly as Lee felt the cool night air embrace her. Uncle Gary nearly took a bullet as he materialized out of the shadows. “Come with me!” he said. “I think they entered the main house.”

  They were halfway across the yard when the mortar rounds began to fall. Both of them hit the ground as the bombs marched across the compound. One of them hit the house and blew a hole in the roof. Lee jumped to her feet and began to run. “Momma!” she shouted. “We need to get her out of there.”

  As they neared the front door, a man was backing out, firing short bursts from a machine pistol as he did so. Lee shot him in the back, jumped the body, and approached the door with both pistols extended. “It’s Cassandra!” she shouted. “Don’t shoot!”

  They entered the house to find a very scared twelve-year-old clutching a .410 shotgun. One side of her head was damp with blood. “Cindy!” Lee said. “Are you okay?”

  Cindy nodded.

  “Momma,” Lee said. “Where is she?”

  “In the kitchen,” Aunt Rosa said as she emerged from a hallway.

  Lee followed the woman back into what was left of the kitchen, and that was where Momma’s body lay. A splinter of wood was protruding from her chest, and she was holding on to it with both hands. Lee dropped down next to her and felt for a pulse. There was none. Lee started to cry.